Finale #4
Harry waves me off. “I tell you what, I’m about sick and tired of you Furys and your dramatics. Just get your mail sent to the dock box, and I won’t ever have to see your sorry ass again. Not talking to you, Lucy-girl. You come on by and visit anytime.” She beams. I hide my grin with a scowl.
“And here I thought we had us a nice little truce after we put that tile in together.”
Together, is a mighty generous word. Harry drank sweet tea and watched me while I worked, making sure I knew every time I was even a hair off.
The same went for the holes in his walls, and the broken shutters, and the paint job to combat the weather.
Him hounding me as his handyman has become our quality time.
“What? You expect me to be grateful? After I saved your ass?”
“Here we go again,” I mutter, and Lucy snorts.
I soon found out after we left Old Stone Church—on the ride home, to be exact—that I will never live down that he saved my life. Never ever ever.
“First these hellions keep coming over—”
“You kidnap them—”
“—and eat me outta house and home every time I cook my catch—”
“—and you don’t have to feed them.”
“So the least you could do is fix the tile you stained. Don’t be ungrateful, Hatton it don’t look good on your sorry ass.
” He holds up a hand. “All I’m saying is, shit or get off the pot.
If you’re staying, change your address. If you ain’t, get your own goddamn mail.
No reason you should make me have to come down here during prime fishin’ time. ”
I snort. “You finished fishing hours ago. I know you.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry snaps, then he hands me the envelope, curls at the edges from where he held it on the walk over. “Don’t say I never gave you nothing.”
There are a couple of postal stamps and one ugly red urgent sticker slapped over the seal. No return address. Just Harry’s with my name in deliberate big block lettering that makes my heart sprint.
I shake it once, then nod to the box. “You know who these is from?”
“The hell should I know?” Harry shrugs, scratching Dinah behind the ear. “Postman comes. Drops your shit off. Postman goes. Then I have to come all the way down here and pretend to be your postman too.”
He huffs. “See what I mean? Ever since I saved your life, it’s just been one favor after another. You’re racking up a mighty big bill, Fury. Just you wait until I call in those favors.” His scowl softens for half a second as Dinah purrs loudly enough to hear over the tide. Then he sighs. “Anyways.”
That word acts as a period at the end of the conversation, and he turns and leaves, Chessy trailing jauntily behind him and Dinah still in his arms.
I want to laugh, but my mind is racing at the script on the front. It’s the kind everyone make fun of medical professionals for, but I’ve always found the handwriting easier to read than most, and appreciated it when my family used it for me.
My stomach drops.
“You think it’s from him, don’t you?” Lucy asks, having sidled up next to me.
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I just hoist the box on my hip then wrap my arm around her back and guide her gently inside.
“Come on, baby.”
We slip back into the houseboat, where sunlight beams golden rays through the windows. I set the box on the counter next to my gun and the envelope before closing every curtain. Then I lift Lucy up onto the table so we’re at eye level.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers.
I turn the envelope over and hold it beneath the light above the sink so she can see the block signature through the paper.
“D. F. Prince…” she murmurs, then looks at me. “Who’s that?”
My lips flatten. “It’s code. My dad’s King. So when we’re undercover, sometimes we use Prince as the surname.”
Her eyes narrow. “Okay, so why is Orion—”
My brow raises. Then it hits her.
“D. F…. Dash Fury…”
I nod once, jaw ticking so hard it aches. “I haven’t talked to him since—” I don’t finish it. I don’t have to. Brylie’s death fills up the rest of the sentence for me.
Lucy swallows. “Why is he reaching out now?”
Her eyes are wide and her breathing has quickened, and so does my heartbeat at her terrified expression.
I reach for her face and trace my thumb over her cheek. “Hey. Whatever this says, we’ll get through it. Maybe he found something. Maybe he found who caused the wreck. But no matter what it says, no running away from me again, got it? Or if you run, you’re taking me with you, goddammit.”
She nods, locking eyes with me. “No running.”
I give her one last look, then take my Fury blade from farther down the counter and cut the tape on the box, then slide it clean beneath the seal to the envelope, opening it with a soft tear.
Lucy vibrates with anxiety as I unfold a letter. Then I hand it to her, and switch to the box as she runs her fingers over the header.
“Transylvania County Sanitorium…” Her face pales. “That sounds… familiar. Isn’t that like… an asylum? I didn’t even know they still had those…” she drifts off like she’s trying to catch a memory.
“Most people don’t,” I say, lifting a file from the box, one of the many.
“But the Wildes do.” I tap the header on the file, the same as the one on the letter in Lucy’s hands.
“I know of this one. It’s famous in Appalachia.
” I skim through the file—report after report that’ll take weeks to pour over—and mutter, “Infamous, actually.”
She sucks in a breath. “Grady… Grady Wilde. He was an orderly at one. He kept calling it an insane asylum. Do you think… do you think it was this one?” She doesn’t wait for my agreement as her brows knit.
“The director is… Dr. Vesna Carabosse. This is a report of some kind. It’s signed by…” She looks up. “Dr. D. F. Prince.” Then he frowns. “Your brother’s a doctor?”
“Nope. At least…” I work my lip between my teeth. “Not a real one, anyway. But… he cosplayed as one for six months.”
Lucy is scary-pale, and the fear that’s clear as day on her features only deepens as a smaller glossy slip falls out face-down onto the ground. I pick it up, and Lucy reads the cursive on the back.
“Consider my debt paid… C.—” She sucks in a breath. “Oh my God. Castle?”
I don’t answer, instead turning it over.
My whole body goes cold.
The photo is grainy, badly lit, taken in a room that looks more cell than hospital. Bed in the corner. Silver sink bolted to the wall. Desk in between. And on the far door, big block letters span the door, the words turning my stomach as my mind reads them out.
PSYCHOSIS WARD.
DOCTOR SUPERVISION ONLY.
Then, below that.
SUICIDE WATCH
Lucy inhales sharply and snatches the photo from my hand before I can stop her.
In the bottom right corner, blurred but unmistakable, a girl with dark honey-blonde curls spins alone in a hospital gown, mid-pirouette, face half-turned toward the camera.
Lucy stares at the picture like her whole world just split open again. She grips it tighter, turning her knuckles white.
“Hatton…” Lucy’s voice cracks on my name. Then she looks up at me, eyes wide and tearful with hope and terror all at once. “It’s Brylie… she’s alive.”